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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22831825">What's Left Of Us</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoldHerTightAndSayHerName/pseuds/HoldHerTightAndSayHerName'>HoldHerTightAndSayHerName</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Kosovo war, Modern AU, aftermath of war, demining expert, forensic anthropologist, tw: violent death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 13:34:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,389</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22831825</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoldHerTightAndSayHerName/pseuds/HoldHerTightAndSayHerName</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In the summer of 1999, Claire Beauchamp-Randall, one of the UK's leading forensic anthropologists, is sent to Kosovo to identify the victims of horrific war crimes. Stranger in a foreign land, only woman in the team, she faces resistance from her colleagues, particularly from security expert James Fraser. But when she makes a chilling discovery, they are forced to team up—and find out that the real threat isn't the dead, but the living. [CURRENTLY ON HOLD]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>265</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>305</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Call</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“No, Frank, I don’t think this is a good idea.”</p><p>I tucked the cordless phone under my ear and stubbornly scrubbed a stain of tomato sauce encrusted on the top compartment of the fridge. Some people blew off steam by going for a long run, having a drink or dancing the night away—for me, it was cleaning my kitchen, light fixtures and cabinet doors included.</p><p>“I know, but I don’t have time tomorrow,” I snapped. “I’ve got to review Geil’s notes on my final draft; I promised her I’d have a look before—”</p><p>Balancing the phone between my cheek and my shoulder, I tried to strip the rubber glove from my right hand.</p><p>“No, no, <em>An innovative method for the categorisation of blunt head traumas in children</em>.”</p><p>This was only half a lie. For quite some time, my colleague and I had been trying to finish that journal paper, but we’d both been so caught up in the grind of our work as forensic anthropologists at Glasgow University that there really was no “final draft” to speak of.</p><p>On the other side of the line, my husband’s voice was as courteous and gentle as ever, but the undertone of irritation was impossible to miss. <em> Husband</em>. I paused, still holding on to my small pink kitchen sponge, considering the word. It sat heavy under my tongue, with the taste of a well-loved comfort food turned sour overnight. Still, I shrugged, that’s what he was—my <em> husband</em>. The stubborn glove came off with a slapping sound.</p><p>“Talk? Talk about what?” I slammed the fridge door, a little too energetically. “I thought we agreed we both needed to <em> think</em>. Take a step back. Besides—”</p><p>As I crossed the living room, my attention was drawn to the TV, where the show I was half-watching had been replaced by the evening news programme and its too-familiar images. Slowly sitting down in my leather armchair, I put the volume back on and shamelessly stopped paying attention to the one-sided conversation I was barely a part of.</p><p>“<em>...were found buried under this building and its parking lot. Assisted by Eulex, the EU’s law and order mission in Kosovo, Serbian authorities believe they have uncovered a mass grave of two-hundred and fifty Kosovo Albanians.” </em></p><p>“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, as the next frame depicted police cars gathered around a macabre ditch.</p><p><em> “The prosecutor's office says authorities will start digging out the bodies within the next few days. For the time being, our reporter</em>—<em>” </em></p><p>I snapped back to reality as the phone started to slide from my hand.</p><p>“What? No, not you—yes, I said <em> shit</em>, but I didn’t mean—” I sighed, pressing two fingers against my forehead. “Look, I really have to go. Let’s talk later, alright?”</p><p>I hung up before he could ask when that would be.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Five minutes later, I had finished watching the news and was heading back to the kitchen when the phone started to ring again.</p><p>“Oh my God!” I growled, yanking the phone from its base. “In what language do I need to spell it out for you—now is<em> not </em>a good time!”</p><p>There was a brief pause at the end of the line, soon followed by an amused, gravelly voice with a slight Boston accent.</p><p>“I see you haven't lost your bite, Dr. Randall?”</p><p>“Joe!” I gasped, feeling my cheeks turn crimson. “Sorry about that—I was—I thought… Never mind. How can I help?”</p><p>Professor Joe Abernathy was a Home Office pathologist at Aberdeen University, where I worked occasionally as a consultant. We’d known each other for years, but he rarely called me, let alone on my home number—this must be important. A little chill of anticipation went through me.</p><p>“Well…” Joe cleared his throat. “That depends. Are you doing anything this weekend?”</p><p>It was the summer of 1999, and this is how it all started — with a call that would change my life forever.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. New Land</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Thank you all for your lovely comments on chapter 1! I hope you'll enjoy this one.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A week later, I found myself on a rutted Macedonian road, tossed against my seat in a sweltering heat, desperately trying to breathe through my mouth as the driver opened a second pack of cigarettes. We’d been driving for about an hour, I had no idea where we were, and the thought was starting to creep into my mind that maybe, just <em> maybe</em>, this impromptu trip might not have been my brightest idea.</p><p>Without even pausing to think, I’d accepted the UK’s Foreign and Commonwealth Office offer to be sent to Kosovo and join the British team as lead forensic anthropologist. The team would assist the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia to investigate possible war crimes and collect forensic evidence to build a legal case against Serbian leader Slobodan Milošević. To put it simply, hundreds of bodies needed to be literally pieced together—and I was one of the few people in Britain who could do the job.</p><p><em> “It’s unlike anything we’ve seen before, Claire,</em>” Joe had sighed. “<em>I realise this is very short notice, but… your expertise would make a huge difference on the field.</em>”</p><p>Having just come back from a mission in the region, Joe had witnessed the aftermath of very recent atrocities. On the first site I had been assigned, Serbian troops had herded a group of fifty Kosovan refugees into an abandoned shed before spraying it with Kalashnikov gunfire and burning it down. When he’d described to me the mass of commingled, very badly decomposed, partially burnt bodies, I’d heard the strain and exhaustion in his voice, as well as frustration and a tinge of professional zeal. To an outsider, this probably looked like distasteful, morbid fascination—but I understood the vortex-like pull of such a scene; knew all too well the bone-deep need to put the pieces together. This was what we did: we looked for answers, and we did our best to give back the dead their names. For Joe, it must have been hard to admit that he couldn’t.</p><p>
  <em> “Do you have any personal obligations this summer? We can arrange for you to come back earlier, if—” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “No, I should be fine. A change of pace might do me some good, actually.” </em>
</p><p>I was set to work in absolutely gruesome conditions, embarking on a six-week mission in a country I knew practically nothing about, freshly emerged from a war, and yet didn’t feel remotely as worried as I ought to be. The whole experience would be a change of pace alright. Some would call it an escape—one person certainly had, after I'd told him about my decision.</p><p>I wondered if my husband had ever fully understood my passion for forensic sciences. Not that I blamed him—it <em> was </em> a peculiar calling after all, even for someone in the medical field, and Frank was an academic at heart, proud owner of a medical degree <em> and </em>a PhD on medical ethics. When I was only about to start university and spent my summer holidays elbow-deep in bowel, working for the local butcher in my native Oxfordshire, he was already starting his GP Specialty Training. We belonged to different generations; had two different ways of practicing medicine—he with the living, I with the dead; and yet he’d always supported my career wholeheartedly, even agreeing to move to Glasgow for me. The first two years of our marriage had been happy. Perhaps the first signs of strain had started when I had been promoted, becoming the youngest person to ever manage the Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification. Perhaps it was my reluctance to start a family, even after Frank hit the big forty. And then, of course, there had been...</p><p>The screeching sound of the brakes made me snap back to reality: we’d reached a militarised checkpoint. Based on my vague memories of the travel guide crammed at the bottom of my backpack, this must be the town of Elez Han, the gateway to Kosovo. Three stern soldiers in dark uniforms stood around the car and displayed their heavy machine guns, making me feel slightly uneasy. <em> Of course </em> they were armed, I thought, rolling my eyes—so was my driver. This was a war zone, not a holiday camp.</p><p>From what I knew, the province had been given extensive rights of autonomy by the 1974 Yugoslav Constitution, which allowed it to be run by the majority-Albanian Muslim population. But the Christian Serbs resented this control over a region they held sacred, and in 1989, president Milošević had given way to nationalism and stripped Kosovo of its constitutional rights. Over the past ten years, tensions had increased between the two ethnic groups, and the international community’s refusal to address the issue had turned the Albanians’ policy of nonviolent protest into an armed conflict. The war had come to an end with NATO’s highly controversial bombing campaign, only a few weeks ago, and the region was still considered extremely unstable. To make matters worse, I was headed south-west, toward the district of Prizren, where snipers had been spotted recently—not to mention the thousands of landmines laid by the Serbian army before their withdrawal. I shivered in spite of the heat, squirming against the faux leather seat and trying my best not to look nervous as the soldiers returned my papers.</p><p>We crossed the checkpoint, following a convoy of lorries going our way. It took a few minutes for my heart to stop pounding and my breathing to even out, and I finally noticed the magnificence of the deep green valleys on the other side of the road, surrounded by mountains covered by beech and sweet chestnut forests—the dense woodlands splitting here and there to reveal a few icy-grey rock pinnacles. The driver heard my little gasp, and looked in the rear view mirror.</p><p>“Sharr mountains very beautiful.” He frowned, his bushy eyebrows coming together in one solid line. “But not safe now.”</p><p>“Oh?” I couldn’t tear my eyes from the grimy window. “I heard there are wolves in the forest?”</p><p>“Hmm. Wolves no danger, no.” He paused, chewing on his cigarette. “But the soldiers, they come to the villages. They kill the women and children first, then they shoot the men. Many, many people, they hide in the mountains.”</p><p>I swallowed hard, but didn’t manage to get rid of the thick lump lodged in my throat. The mountains suddenly looked dark and inhospitable, an opaque mist of fear hovering over them, concealing terrible secrets behind the cover of foliage. I rested my forehead against the window and closed my eyes, trying to ignore the violent shaking of the car as we drove over a series of potholes.</p><p>I had hoped for sleep, not for dreams—but I found myself making my way through a maze of crisscrossing footpaths, the thick branches of the trees blocking the light. Once at a crossroads, I looked up, making out a few stars in a gap of sky above. Everything was deathly quiet, but I knew I wasn’t alone in the silence, with the whites of dozens of eyes staring at me from the darkness.</p><p>The car took a sharp left, and I woke up with a start. In the declining light, we were driving at high speed, sending clouds of dust and debris billowing up into the air while the driver yelled in his radio receiver. I was about to ask him to slow down when the car took another bend and reached the end of a dusty road—blocked by a massive tank.</p><p>Not for the first time over the past twenty-four hours, my stomach flipped. Three men in camouflage suits were standing by the rear end of the tank, blocking the way while another moved toward us. In one swift movement, I grabbed my backpack, getting ready—<em>ready to what, exactly?</em> <em>make a run for the nearest bush? </em>I shook my head crossly and took a deep breath through my nose. Already, the man had reached my side of the car, and was gesturing for me to unroll the window. If he was a soldier, he looked different from the others—much taller, with a black uniform, a ballistic vest, very dark shades and a blue cap that looked vaguely familiar.</p><p>“Travel is prohibited through this area, ma’am. I’m afraid ye’ll have to turn around.”</p><p>I startled, hearing the unmistakable Scottish accent—and relief washed over me like a wave as I suddenly noticed the colours of a tiny British flag stitched on the side pocket of the man’s vest. Clearing my throat, I leaned out of the window.</p><p>“I believe I’m expected here, actually.” I handed out my passport with a polite smile, forcing my voice not to shake. “Dr Beauchamp-Randall. I’m with the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.”</p><p>The man took off his sunglasses, and I thought I saw a fleeting expression of surprise cross the deep blue eyes. His tanned face wasn’t as old as I’d first assumed; there were a few lines in the corners of his mouth, but his stature was broad and athletic, with a high forehead and strong jaw still showing the boldness of youth, and bright auburn hair curling at the nape of his neck, under the rim of his cap. He must be about my age, or younger.</p><p>“I see.” He blinked twice, then looked at my passport. “I suppose ye’ll have a permit, then?”</p><p>“I do.” I gestured awkwardly towards the front seat. “Well, my driver does.”</p><p>He took the documents and looked down once more, his face unreadable.</p><p>“And what is yer business with the Office, ma’am, if ye dinna mind me askin’?”</p><p>If the man’s question was perfectly reasonable, the slight quirk of his left eyebrow made me feel mildly irritated.</p><p>“I’m here to supervise the British forensic team,” I answered without flinching. “Now that you know everything, perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell me who you are?”</p><p>“James Fraser, SO13.” He gave me back the papers with a nod. “I’m the security expert on this site. I suppose someone will be expecting ye, then, Mrs. Beauchamp-Randall?”</p><p>I craned my neck to try to see beyond the military cordon. Several vehicles had been parked along the road, and there seemed to be several white tents set up across the camp.</p><p>“You know, I have no idea,” I sighed, leaning against the window frame. “It was all very... last minute.”</p><p>“Well, then.” The broad mouth curled to one side, twisting in something that looked very much like a smirk. “I suppose that means ye’re coming with me.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. By a thread</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter has been written for weeks, but I've been going through a phase of insecurity and weariness which prevented me from sharing it. So here's to me putting myself out there once more, and hopefully finding my way back. I hope you'll enjoy reading; feedback is always appreciated!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Over the past ten years, I’d had daily conversations with the dead. Whether I was dealing with babies or centenarians, drug addicts, suicide victims, vagrants or prehistoric warriors, WWII soldiers or coalminers, my job was to ask them the right questions, be persistent and unbiased, and bring the pieces of their stories back together. Of course, some of them were tough nuts to crack, revealing very little to point me in the right direction, but more often than not, I was able to proceed meticulously, conducting these conversations in the familiar setting of an autopsy room. On my first day in Kosovo, I had realised that Joe had been right: my work here would be quite different—less like a civil discussion, and more like a loud, exhausting group session where I might not even be able to tell participants apart.</p><p>Dressed in a white crime-scene suit, black rubber wellies (apparently only available in a size 10), a face mask and latex gloves, I was down on my hands and knees, lifting every piece of debris, trying to isolate one person at a time and looking for anything identifiable, from bones and personal effects to bullets and casings. At least twelve people had been killed in this room—twice as many in the next one. Two months later, the corpses were covered with maggots, fragmented and partly scattered by rodents and packs of wild dogs that roamed the nearest hills. I took a deep breath through my mouth, trying to ignore the unbearable smell.</p><p>“Dr. Beauchamp?”</p><p>I looked up, startled. John Grey had been working by my side in complete silence for the past two hours, and I was so focused on my task that his presence had almost gone unnoticed. Not the chatty type, that one, thank God—unlike the other two members of the team, Wylie and MacKenzie, whose coping mechanism seemed to be based on a mixture of unending banter and inappropriate jokes. There was a marked proportion of Scotsmen on the site, between Fraser’s team and mine. At the end of the day, everyone would gather for dinner at the shared residence, about fifteen kilometers away, but my limited interest for whisky and crude talk seemed to isolate me somewhat—that, or the plain fact that I was the only woman.</p><p>“Over here,” Grey whispered. “What do you make of this?”</p><p>I braced myself against the charred structure of the wall, following his finger pointed to the ground. Between the debris of fallen roof tiles and what looked very much like a human scapula, I spotted a flash of colour, and my blood froze. A cable. A bright red cable.</p><p>On my first day, Fraser had given the team an extensive security brief. There had been reports of razor blades being placed in the dead’s pockets, and an IED had been discovered just before my arrival, connected to a trip wire across the path leading to the shed—this was serious. Progress was slow, too slow, and I wanted nothing more than to keep going, but blowing the place up wasn’t exactly an option.</p><p>“Damn it. At this rate, we’ll still be here next year.” I cursed under my breath and shot a glance at Grey, whose face mask was now blotted with sweat. “You go get Fraser, I’ll stay.”</p><p>“Right.” He made to stand and paused abruptly, resting on one knee. “Aren’t we supposed to leave at once, if—”</p><p>“Maybe, but I need to finish and bag this.” Seeing him open his mouth in protest, I cut him short with a smile. “It will only take a minute, Grey. I won’t cut the bloody wire, I promise.”</p><p>He didn’t waste time trying to argue further. A few minutes later, our security expert was at the door in his demining suit, looking even taller than I remembered, and decidedly cross.</p><p>“What the devil are ye still doing here?”</p><p>“Good morning to you too!” I didn’t look up, focusing on the plastic bag I was trying to pry open without John’s assistance. “Hold on—I’m not quite finished yet, and those bloody gloves—”</p><p>“Dr. Beauchamp.” His voice had a definite edge to it. “In case ye havena noticed, I’ve got a job to do—and an important one at that.” </p><p>“Well, so do I!” I retorted dryly. “Just give me a minute, and I’ll be out of your way.”</p><p>He looked around, inhaling sharply, like he was exerting all his strength not to grab my arm and kick me out himself.</p><p>“We <em> dinna have </em> another minute.”</p><p>“You said that a minute ago, and yet here we are,” I retorted, rolling my eyes. I cautiously slipped the decomposed hand inside the bag, and sealed it in one zip. “There! The place is all yours.”</p><p>I stood up cautiously and turned on my heels, making to leave the shed.</p><p>“A word of advice, <em> Doctor</em>.” Fraser’s hand stopped me, resting heavy on my forearm, and he spoke in a low voice. “I understand ye usually operate alone, and maybe ye’re not used to our ways yet. But if ye really want to make a difference here, ye’d do well to listen to yer teammates.” His eyes glistened, unmoving above the rim of the mask—like two blue, distant planets behind the surface of the moon. “Believe it or not, ye’re not the only one who kens what they’re doing.”</p><p>Without giving me a chance to reply, he stepped out of the shed to meet two of his teammates, who had arrived with their blasting supplies.</p><p>Grey was waiting for me at the mortuary tent, kicking dust under a tree. He saw the look on my face and his lips stretched into a wry smile as we came inside.</p><p>“Got told off by Fraser?”</p><p>I shrugged and threw off my gloves in a bin, to label the bag I was carrying.</p><p>“He sure has a high opinion of himself.”</p><p>Grey let out a small laugh, shaking his head.</p><p>“He can be rough around the edges, but he’s not a bad fellow.” My colleague saw my raised eyebrow and bent his head in confidence. “Quite the opposite, actually, when given the chance. And bloody good at what he does.”</p><p>“Is he?”</p><p>“Oh, yes,” Grey took a sip of water and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I saw him at work in Congo. He’s made quite a reputation.”</p><p>“Hmm.” I opened the refrigerating unit and placed the bag inside the appropriate drawer. Professional or not, I thought the man could use some manners. Grey seemed to hear it, and moved towards the door.</p><p>“It’s his responsibility, you know,” he stated plainly. “Keeping you alive long enough to do what you came for.”</p><p>After he left, I sat alone in silence for a few minutes, sipping water thoughtfully. Dying could be surprisingly easy, I knew that much. Sometimes, one flick of the switch was all it took. But in truth, it hadn’t really occurred to me that my time might come here, in the middle of nowhere. As for <em>keeping people alive..</em>. A funny business, that. And not one I had much experience with.</p><p>I gathered my hair back into a tight twist, and got back to work.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>With tense shoulders, we waited for what seemed like hours outside the base, still waiting to hear a detonation sound in the distance. I was sitting on the floor, trying to work out new ways to categorise our Polaroid pictures, when something dropped on my open notebook with a soft, flat sound. A bright red wire.</p><p>“Just a wee keepsake, Sassenach.” The voice was hoarse, filled with sarcasm. “Maybe take a good look at it, next time ye’re about to do something foolish.”</p><p>I looked up to see Fraser towering above me, his face dark against the burning sun. He’d taken off his armor and his navy T-shirt was drenched in sweat.</p><p>“What did you call me?”</p><p>“Let me be clear.” He ignored me and wiped his brow nervously. “There was enough in there to blow you to pieces. Ye’re just lucky the switch was rusty.”</p><p>A cold shiver went through me, and I felt relieved that I was sitting down.</p><p>“Right.” I closed my laptop and crossed my arms to keep my hands from shaking. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have waited. But now that it’s done, there’s no need to...”</p><p>“Yer word, Dr. Beauchamp.” He crouched next to me, so close I could feel his breath on my face and notice the tips of his ears had turned bright red, and spoke in a very low voice. “Yer word that if ye <em> ever </em> see anything suspicious again, ye’ll call it. <em> Immediately</em>.”</p><p>“Fine,” I inhaled sharply. “I will.”</p><p>Something in his icy blue eyes flickered, and he stood abruptly.</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>Without another word, he headed towards the decontamination tent in long, restless strides. The team had followed our exchange with interest, and all eyes were now turned on me, some of them without kindness. <em> Sassenach</em>. I’d lived in Glasgow long enough to know what the term meant, and understood that it wasn’t meant to be endearing. An English person—or an outsider.</p><p>Pretending to focus on my notes, I took a minute to gather myself. I had no doubt that Fraser had enjoyed this little public scolding—and I wouldn’t offer him a second chance to make me look like a complete fool. For the next five weeks, the less I would have to do with him, the better off I would be.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Empty rooms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone! As I said on my tumblr, in this time of pandemic, I've been trying to be more mindful about what I watch, what I read, about my social media activity. I want the content I consume to bring me nothing but joy, entertainment and/or inspiration… and Outlander (the show) doesn’t do that anymore. Since What's Left Of Us doesn’t seem to resonate with a majority of readers, I won’t prioritize writing anymore. But... I finished this chapter a while ago - and I thought some of you may like to read it.<br/>I can't make promises, but I will definitely try to finish this story, at my own pace. Until then, be safe and stay home. ❤️</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>One, two, three ringtones. I tapped my fingers on the glass panel of the phone booth, nervously peeking across the room. Four, five. Fraser and MacKenzie were finishing their drinks and breakfast rolls, exchanging a few gruff words while the caffeine kicked in. We’d left the residence before dawn, and I was feeling rather dishevelled myself. Six</span>
  <span>—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the familiar voice pierced through the darkness, a small wave of relief washed over me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Enjoying a Sunday lie-in?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Claire.” The connection was shaky, but I heard a sharp intake of breath, far in the distance. “I was starting to wonder if you’d gone ahead and went to live alone in the woods.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, I’m sorry.” I grimaced, forgetting Frank couldn’t see me. “All phone connections were cut last Tuesday. I had to wait for a chance to go to town.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The word seemed rather grand for this tiny café on the outskirts of Gjakovë, but it was the closest I’d been to civilisation since my arrival, ten days ago. Of course, in case of emergency, I knew Fraser kept a cellular phone at the base</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>but I had my pride.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm. Well, don’t worry about it, darling.” The line crackled with static, and Frank’s voice on the other end sounded hesitant, a little distracted. “It’s just good to hear from you. Are you off today?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, we’re on our way to Ljubenić, actually. We’ve been called on another site to</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry, the line is awful. Whereabouts are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lju-be-nić,” I repeated with more emphasis. “Pretty far up north; it’s even more beautiful around here. You should see the mountains.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughed, a little stiffly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The way you speak, you’d think you’re gone on a picnic with your little brigade.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, trust me, I’m not.” I picked at the shiny black paint of the transmitter, which was starting to peel around the corners. “I spend fourteen hours a day breathing in these guys’ necks; the last thing we want to do is hang out on our only day off.” I took one deep breath through my nose, trying to picture him sitting in our kitchen, with the papers spread out on the table and a steaming cup of tea. “And you? Any plans for the day?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm? Oh, not really. I might go and get lunch later with</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The line crackled and hissed as the voice faded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello?” I pressed the receiver into my ear as tightly as I could. “Hello? Frank?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The white static in the background was replaced with silence, followed by a series of long beeps. He was gone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Disheartened, I put down the phone on the wall mount and joined the men at the other end of the room. Of course, they were already waiting for me. I sat down with a huff, facing my assistant and his characteristic half-smile hidden behind a thick brown beard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didna ken ye offered phone consultations as well, Doctor.” He wiggled his eyebrows and lowered his voice. “Bad case of morning glory, I reckon?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really, MacKenzie?” I rolled my eyes, taking one last sip of coffee. “If you’re going to sound like a desperate creep, at least try to be creative about it. You could give me, I don’t know, a few dirty lines in Albanian</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds like my type of movie!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...some big, fat, juicy cabbage rolls to stuff</span>
  <span>—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fraser made a strange noise that sounded like a stifled cough, and shot me a strange look as Rupert snorted with laughter. I shrugged innocently, throwing a few crumbly notes on the table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A few minutes later, we were back on the road again</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>which seemed pretty much deserted. I pressed my forehead against the window and closed my eyes, replaying the phone call in my head. Of course, I was happy to have heard my husband’s voice at last. I just couldn’t remember him asking how I was feeling.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Unlike what most people seemed to believe, I never woke up in the middle of the night sweating, didn’t replay some horrifying scenes over and over again. Taking on the suffering of the dead wasn’t an option—and on most days, compartmentalising came naturally to me. I had created many imaginary doors inside my head, each of them leading to different rooms, safe and detached from my world. All I had to do was choose the one best suited for the job at hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We’d laid out a white sheet on the floor to examine the first victim. She was still wearing her blue pajamas, with yellow ducks and smiley clouds clearly visible under the dirt. The sheet had merely been labelled with a large number five—the little girl’s reported age.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. I’ll undress her, and then we can move her and start with the anatomical survey. MacKenzie, can you take the inventory?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the corner of my eye, I could see my assistant’s black wellies firmly planted on the ground next to me, but his reply was inaudible. I put one knee to the ground and looked up, frowning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“MacKenzie?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rupert slowly wiped his mouth with his forearm, hands shaking badly. He was white as a sheet, apparently unable to look away from the child.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aye, sorry, I just</span>
  <span>— </span>
  <span>I’ve...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I could feel the sweat pour down my neck and between my breasts, soaking my underwear and the T-shirt under the suit, and yet I felt cold, as cold as the little body splayed on the plastic sheet. The temperature was rising, though, and there was no time to waste.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know; it’s a fucking nightmare,” I said, trying to conceal my impatience. “But we can’t wait any longer, otherwise</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rupert’s mouth closed and opened wordlessly, his ragged breathing intensifying. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, God</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I couldn’t do damage control. If I wanted to stay focused, that door needed to stay closed. I took a deep breath through my nose, and bent on my task, cautiously taking off the little girl’s shoe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, Rupert, I need you to </span>
  <em>
    <span>keep it together</span>
  </em>
  <span> and do your </span>
  <span>job</span>
  <span>. Can I count on you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Step back, man.” Fraser put a large hand on my colleague’s shoulder. “Take a minute.” His voice was calm and low, and he pivoted slightly, forcing Rupert to move to the side and take his eyes off the child. “I’ll do the inventory.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irritation crawled up my spine like an army of ants.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Fraser, but could you please stay out of this? I don’t think you’re</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...qualified enough?” He snorted, grabbing a pen. “Tis one thing to have a poor opinion of anyone but yerself, but I hope ye wouldn’t go as far as to imply I’m illiterate?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I opened my mouth to protest, but he didn’t let me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do ye have children, Dr. Beauchamp?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know this isn't irrelevant.” I knew where this was going, and looked him straight in the eye. “Personal experience cannot be</span>
  <span>—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I ken that well enough,” he shrugged. “But his daughter just turned five. Thought ye ought to know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a pause, and I risked a glance toward my assistant, who was now retching heavily under a pine tree.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As ye said</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>we dinna have all day,” Fraser muttered under his breath. “Yer call.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anger had left me suddenly, so quickly I thought I heard the sound of a popped balloon hissing inside my thoracic cavity. I felt limp and slightly out of breath. Without a word, I stood up to go fetch more plastic bags and stopped by MacKenzie’s side, handing him a water bottle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sorry, Dr. Beauchamp, I—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No more </span>
  <em>
    <span>cevapcici </span>
  </em>
  <span>for you. You look dreadful.” He smiled, swallowing hard, and I gripped his arm with my free hand. “I’ll call you when we’re ready for the next one, alright? You may be useless, but Fraser is worse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snorted between the tears, and I walked back to the grave site, feeling a little calmer. Deep within myself, I had stepped inside the far corner of the farthest room, shut the door, and locked it behind me. Only I knew the access code. Claire would have to wait outside for a little while.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” I whispered dryly, crouching between Fraser and the child. “Let’s get to work.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>- This story is loosely inspired by All That Remains, a memoir written by Scottish professor of forensic anthropology and anatomy Sue Black. My storyline and characters are fictional but sadly, the actual events really happened.<br/>- moodboard available here: https://holdhertightandsayhername.tumblr.com/post/190948941896/to-everyone-who-encouraged-me-to-keep-writing<br/>- In spite of all my research, I am obviously not an expert on such a complex topic, and I have never been to Kosovo. Any errors are unintended; please feel free to drop me a message if you find something inaccurate.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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